


all today (say that you love me)

by slashy (slashmyheartandhopetoporn)



Category: Justified
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmyheartandhopetoporn/pseuds/slashy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of phone calls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leslielol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/gifts).



> "good friday" is very much still in the works, but after an extended justified break i needed to get back into the groove for them with something a little less complex. enter this fic! sorry it's another wip....
> 
> for leslielol bc she is perfect and so supportive and i love her. /cries

About six months later, he sends back the book.

Raylan picks up the plain yellow mailer sitting on his desk in Miami and recognizes the chicken scratch immediately. He hasn’t spoken to Tim since he left the office, and he hadn’t really expected to, so the package is a surprise. The book comes with a note, short and to the point. _Read it. Could have done with more wizards._ Then, in a different colored ink--as if a last minute addition--Raylan reads: _Ain’t the same without you and Rachel. Nelson’s an idiot and Art’s almost out of the good shit he keeps in his cabinet. You owe us all a bottle. Split the cost with Rachel. And send back my bag with it!_

It gets a smile out of Raylan as he thumbs through the pages. Then he tucks the book into his desk drawer, tosses the note onto a pile of paperwork, and picks up the phone without thinking too much about it.

“Deputy Gutterson, how can I help you.” It’s technically a question, but Tim’s dull voice doesn’t phrase it that way.

“You got shit taste in books,” Raylan says. “And I don’t know where the fuck your bag is.” It’s a lie. Raylan knows exactly where it is: in his closet in the same box that homes his shot Stetson.

“Oh, Raylan,” Tim deadpans, “It’s so nice to hear your voice.”

“Ain’t it just,” Raylan agrees. “Not so bad to hear yours too.”

“You call for a reason or just to insult my reading preferences?”

“Ain’t that enough?”

“I think I prefer discussing the weather with Nelson.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that or he’ll never leave you alone.”

Raylan hears Tim sigh. “Too late for that,” Tim says. “I’m the senior marshal in the office after Art now that you and Rachel flew the coop.”

“You still bitter about that?”

“Raylan, do you know me to be bitter about anything?”

Raylan can’t keep a smile from his lips. “Only just about everything there is.”

Tim scoffs. “Raylan Givens, here I thought we were moderately well-acquainted ex-coworkers.”

There’s a line Raylan doesn’t have to cross, but being a Givens he finds himself automatically so inclined anyway. So he doesn’t let the comment be and instead says, “Thought we were a little more when I left.”

Tim doesn’t miss a beat. “Then you left.”

There’s an awkward silence, all levity gone. Then Tim speaks again, voice back to his usual practiced disinterest. “How’re Willa and Winona?” The moment passes.

Raylan coughs. “Fine. Not living with Winona anymore, but Willa is real good. Growing like a weed.”

“I hear kids do that. Sorry about Winona.”

“It’s all right. Don’t think anyone’s surprised things went the way they did. You hear from Rachel lately?”

“Shit, you think Rachel’s got any time for us plebes now that she’s chief of her own team up in Seattle?”

“Yeah, I ain’t heard from her in a spell myself.”

They fall silent again, but this time it’s not so tense. Tim breaks it once more. “Well, Raylan this has been swell but I _do_ have a job to do. Thought you might too.”

“Message received, Gutterson. I’ll let you go.”

“You planning to call again,” Tim asks, much to Raylan’s surprise.

“I don’t know. You want me to?”

Tim doesn’t answer.

“I’ll call you again,” Raylan decides. “Until then,” he says, then hangs up the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

Tim’s nursing a not-insignificant hangover when his cell rings. It’s been a few weeks, and he doesn’t recognize the number, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion he knows who it is all the same.

“New phone, who this?” he says instead of hello.

“Shit, you too?” Raylan asks.

“It’s a meme, Raylan. Don’t they have the internet down in Miami?”

“What’s a meme?”

Tim lets his eyes fall shut. He’s too drunk for this conversation. Still. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Oh, come on,” Raylan says. “Now not a good time?”

“When is it ever when you’re involved?”

“I forgot you were so mean,” Raylan replies, and Tim can almost _feel_ Raylan’s pout. “First you ask me to give you a call--”

“I did not actually ask--”

“--then you act like it’s some imposition when I do--”

“--for you to do shit--”

“--and honestly, I’m just trying to keep in touch--”

“--except give me my goddamn bag back--”

“--and you keep going on about this goddamn bag like--”

“--it was a nice bag, Raylan--”

“--we didn’t spend my last few months in Lexington--”

“--and more importantly it was _my_ bag--”

“--screwing our dicks off every damn day.”

Tim shouldn’t be surprised at Raylan’s directness, and he’s not, really. But he is unprepared. So he says, “Raylan, I’m tired, my head hurts, and I have no patience for talk about shit that doesn’t matter.”

“You mean you’re hungover and don’t want to talk about what happened? Because it doesn’t matter now?”

“Did it ever?”

The only over-the-phone sign that Raylan’s pissed is the slight _tsk_ that goes along with him persing and relaxing his lips. “Jesus, Tim, tell me how you really feel.”

“Like shit, Raylan.”

“That ain’t my fault.”

“You’re right,” Tim agrees. “My own fault for being an alcoholic. Thanks for reminding me. Now I’ll go ahead and remind you that when you left Lexington, you left with your ex-wife and baby daughter. Excuse me if that left a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Sure that ain't the bourbon's doing?”

“Get off your fucking high horse, Raylan.”

It's the harshest he’s been since he picked up the phone, the words scraping from his throat in a jagged accusation. _You’re no fucking better._

“You know,” Raylan says after a pause. “I didn't’ actually call to do this.”

Tim snorts. “Didn’t you?”

There’s another pause. “Maybe I did,” Raylan concedes.

“Disappointed in the way it’s going?”

“More like confused as to how I came to ever miss you.”

The comment hits Tim harder than it should. It’s an easy declaration of affection, a skill of Raylan’s Tim well knows, and it shouldn’t make him go soft. But some small part of him still does. He swallows. “That’s _mighty_ sweet of you to say.”

“You’re not going to say it back?”

“What, that you confuse me? I'll admit to that any day of the week.”

“Come on, Gutterson, I'm trying to be nice. Would it kill you to do the same?”

“Not too keen on trying to find out.”

“Tim,” Raylan says in a tone that suggests he’s reprimanding a small child. Then again, gentler: “ _Tim.”_

Tim doesn't like having his hand forced. Doesn’t like that--even a few states away--Raylan can still push him into confessing things he’d rather not say. But it is what it is, and Tim takes a moment to listen to Raylan’s breath heavy in his ear before he says, “I miss you, Raylan.” _In for a penny._ “All the fucking time. That what you wanted to hear?”

“You could come visit me,” Raylan says, careful.

Tim’s reaction is quick and sharp. “Yeah, let’s not do that.”

“It doesn’t have to be out of the question.”

“It is,” Tim says firmly. “I'm not going to visit you like some interstate booty call because Winona isn’t wetting your dick anymore.”

Raylan’s anger is obvious now. “Leave her out of this.”

“You didn’t.”

Tim half expects Raylan to hang up. End the call and not call back, and if he’s honest he thinks that’s probably why he said anything about Winona in the first place. But Raylan doesn’t hang up. He sighs, heavy and long.

“I didn’t,” he agrees, and Tim thinks this is the most self-aware Raylan’s ever been in his life. “And that wasn’t fair to either of you.”

Tim doesn't know how to respond. The conversations taken more turns than he’s capable of smoothly navigating in his present state. So he sticks with honesty. “I don’t know how to talk to you when you’re being so...mature.”

“Fuck off, Tim. I got a kid now.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Makes you rethink some things is all.”

“Like your entire personality?”

“You’re making this real hard, Gutterson.” 

Tim shakes his head, though he knows Raylan can’t see it. “I know I am.”

He is all at once far more tired than he was when the conversation started. Tim had forgotten that Raylan often had this effect on him--this ability to tax and energize him within the space of a single interaction. He’s not sure if he’s missed it or not. Either way, he eyes his last bottle of Jack and knows it’s going to be another long day.

“Listen, Raylan. This has been fun. Terrible. A mistake--you take your pick. But I’m about done, whatever you choose.” 

“Tired of my voice?” Raylan asks.

“Shit, Raylan, mostly I’m just tired of talking.” And it’s true; he damn well is.

“Then I guess I’ll say goodbye,” says Raylan, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. “Add this number to your phone if you feel so inclined.”

“I'm hanging up now, Raylan.”

Raylan beats him to it.

Ten minutes later and Tim is still staring at Raylan’s number in the “recent calls” log in his phone. “Fuck,” he mutters, then saves the number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops. got a bit long, but the conversation just took a little more time to feel done.


	3. Chapter 3

Raylan’s almost positive Tim won’t call him, and he’s got no plans to call Tim anymore himself. He’d learned his lesson last time and had no desire for a repeat performance. Which is why he’s nigh on shocked when his phone rings just three days later and Tim’s number lights up the screen.

He’s trying to get Willa to sleep, so he hurriedly answers the phone and tucks it up between his ear and his shoulder without thinking about it.

“Hey, can you hold on for, like, two minutes?”

Tim’s voice comes back amused. “I think I can manage that.”

Raylan sits on his couch and arranges Willa in his lap so he has one arm free, then he moves his phone to his other ear and stretches out his neck. “Okay, we’re all set.”

“We?”

“I’ve got Willa today.”

Tim falls silent a moment. “I can call another day.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Raylan says. “She’s asleep.”

“Us talking won’t wake her up?” Raylan knows that everything about Willa makes Tim nervous, even when Tim’s one thousand miles away.

“If we do, I’ll deal with it,” Raylan says simply. Then he asks, only a little warily, “So, what’s going on? Didn't expect to hear from you so soon.” The obvious _if at all_ goes unsaid.

“I'm not here to jump down your throat again, if you were worried,” Tim answers.

“A shame. It was so much fun last time.”

“Well, it’s a well-known fact that Raylan Givens’ favorite activity is getting put in his place.”

“Especially when hot blonds are the ones doing it.” Raylan hopes Tim will take the comment for the olive branch that it is.

“I’ll be sure to tell Winona you said that,” Tim replies, and Raylan tells himself not to be so disappointed.

“Shit, I think she’s probably figured that out by now,” he says back, defeated.

“Did you just swear in front of the baby?”

Raylan looks down at Willa to see if he’s been caught out, but she's still sleeping in his arm. “She’s in dream land. And she don’t know what it means anyway.”

“Ain’t they like dogs, though?” Tim says. “Can’t they pick up on tone or some shit?”

Raylan frowns into the phone. “I'm going to pretend you didn’t just compare my daughter to a dog.”

“No offense meant, Papa Bear. It is okay I call you that, right? Or does that break the new no-animal-human-comparison rule?”

“Tim, as far as I’m concerned you can call me whatever you want.” It’s another half-assed attempt at flirtation, a misguided effort to break the unaddressed tension that Raylan can feel thrumming between them, even over the phone. Their prior call is still raw in his mind, and despite his insistence to the contrary Tim still seems spoiling for a fight. But Raylan’s no good at Tim’s way of combat.

The attempt backfires, again, and Tim’s reply is swift and barbed. “How about ‘bastard’?”

Trench warfare.

Raylan rolls his eyes. “Thought you didn’t call to bitch me out again?”

Tim doesn’t answer immediately. Then: “You’re right. My bad. It’s just so easy with you.”

“Have I ever told you how much fun you are to talk to?”

“A popular comment on my personability.”

“Yeah,” Raylan mutters. “Bet you hear it a lot.”

The silence that follows puts Raylan even further on edge. Sparse conversation isn’t exactly uncommon with Tim, who generally prefers to communicate in scathing expressions of disapproval or disinterest, but the understanding that there are things going unsaid leaves every pause laden with suggestion and threat. Raylan’s inclination is to scratch at the silence until the pressure gives, but their current peace is tenuous at best, and even Raylan knows it’s not the time to itch.

“How’s Art?” he asks instead.

“Crotchety,” Tim answers succinctly.

Raylan grins. “Figures. Here I thought he might lighten up with me gone.”

Tim offers the smallest of chuckles. “You forget Rachel left only a couple weeks after you. You might have been the biggest pain in Art’s ass, but Rachel was his favorite. He’s been pissy since she left.”

“If I was the problem child and Rachel his favorite, where does that leave you?”

“The dreaded middle child I suppose,” Tim considers. "Though Nelson makes me look real good these days.”

“Fucking Nelson. How’d he get a badge and a gun?”

“Well, they seem to give those things out to just about anyone.” Tim says it pointedly enough that Raylan knows he’s being once again slighted. He lets the comment go without mention, though it’s tempting to snap, _Did you or did you not call_ me _today?_

“So Art’s crotchety and Rachel’s busy with success. Can I bother asking how you’ve been or will that just get my ass flayed for my troubles?”

“Not like your ass can’t take it,” Tim throws back, and Raylan’s pleasantly surprised by the vague suggestiveness of the remark.

“It certainly did take a lot of things from you back when.”

Tim _tsk_ s and Raylan can just see him shaking his head. “Keep it in your pants, Cowboy. Willa might be sleeping but this is still making me uncomfortable.”

Raylan looks down at Willa again. He’d almost forgotten she was there. “Fair enough,” he says to Tim. “But seriously. How’ve you been?”

A sigh. “I'm all right, Raylan. Really.” He sounds sincere. “It’s weird at work and quieter at home, but I haven’t drank myself to death yet, so I really can’t complain.”

“That’s good, Tim,” he says quietly.

The mood shifts, and for a few moments--minutes even, though it doesn’t feel like that to Raylan--he and Tim simply listen to one another breathe. Raylan holds Willa tighter to him and allows himself the freedom to ache for the tatters of the relationship he’s managed to hold onto with Tim. Normally Raylan doesn’t fret over his track record with relationships. He is who he is, and who he is likes difficult people who’re usually all wrong for him. Or maybe who he is is all wrong for them, but either way the results the same. Winona. Ava. Boyd, if he’s being honest with himself. And now Tim. Today his record is hard to contend with.

Raylan swallows. “Thanks for calling me, Tim.”

Tim clears his throat. “Thanks for giving me your new number.”

“Safe to say we’ll talk again?” Raylan half expects Tim to hang up as an answer, but he doesn’t.

“Against my better judgement.”

“Then I look forward to more of your patented sweet talk.”

“Later, Raylan.”

“Later, Tim.”

And Raylan listens to Tim end the call.


	4. Chapter 4

“Timothy Gutterson, I thought you were avoiding me." 

Tim sighs and smiles to himself. “Here I just thought you were busy.”

“Bet your ass I am. Running my own team is no walk in the park.”

“But you're damn good at it.

He can just see Rachel’s smirk on the other end of the phone as she agrees. “Damn right I am.”

“So how’s Seattle?”

“Rainy as shit,” Rachel replies.

“Do you prefer chasing down hippies in Seattle or hillbillies in Harlan?”

“It’s about the same, if I’m being honest. Still get called a black bitch even when the one doing the calling’s wearing nasty dreads instead of a Budweiser shirt."

“Though I do imagine the office company ain’t so good as down here.”

Rachel pauses just long enough to _almost_  inspire real concern in Tim. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says finally. “I got two ladies on my team that could give you and the cowboy a run for your money.”

Tim gasps. “You wound me, Rachel. Truly.”

Rachel snorts. “How’re the replacements doing?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know. They get the job done. They’re just a lot more boring than the people they’ve replaced.”

“You know,” Rachel muses, “I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about Raylan. Not the nicest thing you’ve said about me, tough….”

Tim rolls his eyes. “What can I say? I’m feeling charitable. Towards one of you, at least.”

“See if I take one of your calls again,” Rachel replies. Then, “When was the last time you talked to him?”

It’s dangerous territory for Tim. Rachel knows about his past indiscretions with Raylan, because Rachel always manages to know about everything, but she’s never been especially supportive. Tim knows that talking too much about Raylan, particularly his recent contact with him, won’t do him any favors. But he can’t lie. It’s _Rachel_.

“The other day, actually,” he says lightly. “We’re negotiating the terms of my bag return.”

Rachel scoffs. “You and that damn bag. You have, what? Four of them? What with all the books you buy. Probably managed to earn a few more since I left, haven’t you.”

Tim dodges the accusation. “It’s the principle of the thing, Rachel. The principle. I told him to give it back, he hasn’t yet.”

“Oh, and I’m sure that’s all there is to it.”

“Well, golly, Rachel,” Tim says with some bite. “Whatever else could there be?”

“ _Mmhmm_ ,” is Rachel’s only response.

“What,” Tim says, because he can’t stop himself. “That really all you’re going to say?”

“I think you know me well enough that nothing else needs saying.”

Tim gives himself a moment to really decide how he wants to continue the conversation. If he wants to change the subject to something less dangerous, or if he wants to drag the inevitable reprimand to its bitter conclusion.

“It was just a phone call, Rachel,” he ends up saying, because at his core Tim is a masochist.

“Just one?” Rachel asks, as if she already knows the answer.

“Maybe more than one,” Tim admits.

He expects Rachel to call him a dumbass. To ask him why he does this to himself. To chew Raylan out for leading Tim on, because surely that’s what he’s doing now just like that’s what he was doing then, or to bring up any number of the other arguments they had back when Raylan was still in Lexington and Tim was still allowing himself the occasional hope that Raylan wouldn’t ever actually leave. He’d never told that to Rachel, but somehow she seemed to already know his most shameful secret, and that was awful in its own way too.

But Rachel doesn’t bring up any of that. She doesn’t give Tim the dressing down he deserves for getting back in contact with Raylan, and she doesn’t tear into Raylan either. She only sighs, a heavy and disappointed sound, and says quietly, “Just be careful.”

Tim swallows. He’s not sure how he feels about this newly gentle Rachel. He thinks he prefers when she rips him a new one for being an idiot. “Don’t go all soft on me now,” he tells her.

“You’re going to do what you’re going to do,” Rachel snaps, some of her old ire back. “Stupid me for actually giving a damn.”

Tim doesn’t know what to do with Rachel’s worry. He doesn’t have the experience to navigate when someone is so open with their care. Back as a ranger, there had been a deep-seated camaraderie, a genuine sense of loyalty and investment in the unit’s well-being. But emotions had been restrained, and expressions of anxiety and relief tempered by the understanding that death could take any of them at any time. It was quite literally what they had signed up for. Rachel’s easy displays of concern, and the sense of devotion behind them, threw Tim in the same way Raylan’s obvious displays of sincere affection threw him. He just wasn’t equipped to deal with all the excess feelings.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Tim tells her, and he knows he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince Rachel. He repeats, “Nothing is going to happen.”

“Fine,” Rachel says, but she still sounds mad. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

The silence that grows between them is rife with what’s left unsaid, and for a moment Tim feels the world around him begin to fade. Uncomfortable silences between him and Raylan are a given, but Tim doesn’t think he can manage if Rachel starts withholding conversation from him too. If she doesn’t talk, then who will? But he anchors himself before things spiral too far out of his control.

“Look,” he says in a rare moment of desperate honesty. “I need us to be okay. This can’t just sit between us. If my talking to Raylan is going to be a problem for you, we need to deal with it.”

Rachel lets out a breath. “Like it or not, I worry about you. And it’s not because I don’t think you can handle yourself--you know I know you can do that just fine. But you cannot pretend you don’t have a shit track record of handling yourself when it comes very specifically to Raylan fucking Givens. You can’t pretend that the last time things went south you didn’t handle yourself very poorly.”

Tim wants to hang up. Doesn’t want to be reminded of the days immediately following Raylan’s departure to Miami. At least, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he managed to remember of those days.

“That’s not going to happen again,” he says tightly.

“It better not,” Rachel exclaims. “God knows why, but you matter a hell of a lot to me, Tim, asshole that you may be. And against all better judgement, Raylan means a lot to me too. My worry isn’t because I think Raylan likes to actively fuck with you, it’s because I know he doesn’t realize when he’s doing it. And you’re so useless you don’t realize it either. It’s not good for either of you.”

“Yeah, you said that last time.”

“Then _listen to me_ , Tim! For once, just listen to me.”

Tim holds back the anger dancing on the tip of his tongue. This call was supposed to have gone differently. He says, “Somehow I don’t feel like we just resolved anything.”

Rachel’s frustration is barely hidden when she replies, “No, I don’t think we did.”

“Well, shit,” Tim says.

And then, unexpectedly, they’re both laughing.

Not long and hard or deep and loud, but quietly, little snorts of exasperated amusement feeding into one another over the phone until most, if not all, of the tension has been chipped away.

“Fuck, Rach, I just meant to call and ask if you’d finally gotten around to seeing _21 Jump Street_ yet. Didn’t mean to start all that other shit.”

Rachel snorts one last time. “My nephew loved it.”

“And you?”

Rachel pauses. Then she says, “You have the right to...suck my dick, motherfucker!”

And suddenly they’re back on solid ground. It’s not quite like the previous argument’s been forgotten, but the threat of a fall out is gone, lost to the universal satisfaction of quoting a funny movie with an old friend whose presence is so sorely missed that not even the fissures of disagreement can mar the relief of hearing the others’ voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep thinking my chapters will get smaller, and then they don't.


	5. Chapter 5

When Tim answers the phone, he offers only a flat, “Hey.”

Raylan takes a moment to regret his luck before asking warily, “Are you in a mood?”

“Bitch, I might be,” Tim replies.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Tim sighs. “Another meme, Raylan.”

“Okay, what the hell is a meme?”

“Too hard to explain over the phone. Look it up yourself and get back to me.”

Raylan figures that’s the best he’s going to get on the subject, so he moves on. “Why are you in a mood?”

“Some hillbilly bastard shot at me today. Nicked my shoulder.”

Raylan lets out a low swear. “So he didn’t shoot _at_  you, he actually _shot_ you.” Then, “Art’s got you on desk duty, doesn’t he?”

“Sure as fuck does,” Tim says in as close to a whine as his voice can muster. “I fucking hate desk duty.”

“You know if you complain too much he'll just put you on prisoner transport.”

It’s Tim’s turn to swear. “What’s the point of being a deputy U.S. marshal if I don’t get to harass assholes and uphold justice? Or some kind of shit like that.”

Raylan grins. “I know that’s why I do it.”

“I remember,” Tim replies. “What’d you ask Rachel and me that one time? Didn’t we wake up in the morning hoping to ruin some asshole’s day? Because you sure did?”

“Sounds like something I’d say.”

“It does, doesn't it."

“You sound like your mood’s improved.”

Tim takes a moment before he answers. “I may be enjoying a little thank you gift from Loretta.”

Raylan’s not sure where to begin, so he just shouts, “Tim!”

Tim’s too relaxed to get worked up himself. “She’s an enterprising young lady, Raylan. Why shouldn’t I support a local independent business woman?”

“You mean besides the fact that you are, as previously discussed, a deputy U.S. marshal?”

Tim scoffs dramatically. “Like you never broke the law.”

Raylan takes a breath. He’s afraid to ask the necessary question, but he manages to do it all the same. “Why is Loretta giving you a thank you gift, anyway?”

Tim pauses. “She may have been involved in the aforementioned dispute.”

“ _The aforementioned dispute_ …” Raylan quietly repeats. He’d forgotten Tim liked big words when he was high. He got handsy too, but Raylan supposes given the context that’s neither here nor there.  “Care to elaborate?”

“It really wasn't that big of a deal.”

“Shooting aside.”

“Right,” Tim says. “Some dude broke into her drying shed the other day and holed himself up. Trying to steal the goods, I suppose. Loretta had it under control, being Loretta, but she called me all the same for a little backup.”

“Sounds like she needed it.”

“Ouch,” Tim says. “Sorry, I just shrugged. Tugged at my stitches a bit.”

“Jesus, Tim.”

“Oh, don’t ' _Jesus, Tim'_ me. She needed help, so I helped her. Thought you’d be pleased, to be quite honest.”

Raylan lets his eyes fall shut. “It doesn’t exactly bring me pleasure to know Loretta’s line of work could have gotten her shot, and actually _did_ get you shot. How’d that happen again?”

“Asshole came out of the shed shooting. Pegged me just as I was taking cover.”

"Did you even call for backup?"

"I  _was_ the backup," Tim says, exasperated. "You don't call in backup for your backup. Don't you know anything, Raylan?"

Raylan's breath comes out in a _whoosh_. He decides not to press the point. “So who got him?”

“Who do you think?”

He can’t keep himself from feeling at least a little satisfied. “Loretta McCready is not to be messed with.”

“No, she is not,” Tim agrees. “Anyway, she gave me some weed as a combination ‘Sorry you got shot, but thanks for helping out!’ gift. I think she felt bad.”

“That’s likely."

Raylan allows himself a moment to miss Loretta. They’d not been as close as they might have been, but she still feels like his first daughter all the same. It’s always felt a little unfair to Willa to feel so strongly about Loretta, so Raylan’s kept her somewhat away from his thoughts, but thinking about her now, starting her own growing business, has him feeling mixed. There’s only one thing he knows for sure.

“I’m glad you’re both okay, Tim.”

“Well, I did get shot.”

“I’d kiss it better if I could,” Raylan says, not even bothering to try and stop himself.

“Flirting while I’m too stoned to be mean about it is a dick move, Givens.”

Raylan smiles. “Taking advantage where I can, Gutterson.”

“Sounds about right.”

“You got any pain meds?” Raylan asks.

“That’s what the weed’s for.”

“Is it, now?”

“Little weed, little whiskey, little Williams. I’m all set for a real nice time over here.”

“Seems so. Just don’t go too crazy.”

Tim doesn’t respond immediately. Eventually he asks, “You worried about me, Raylan?”

Raylan considers the best way to answer. “Bitch, I might be.”

Tim’s responding  laugh is genuine, if surprised.

“Did I use that right?” Raylan asks him.

Tim is still laughing. “You did.”

“I’m thinking, with our track record, maybe I should end this call on a good note."

Tim’s laugh tapers to a snort. “You might even say a _high_ note.”

“Christ almighty, Gutterson.”

“Come on, admit it. That’s why you love me.”

Raylan’s already halfway through answering, “That might have something to do with it,” when it hits him just what Tim has said. 

Tim doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Then I’ll let you go, Raylan."

Raylan clears his throat. “I’ll talk to you later, Tim.”

Half a bottle of Wild Turkey later and Raylan still can’t shake the words from his head. He thinks to himself, _Maybe I’ll have better luck once I finish the bottle_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, i just can't resist sneaking stoner!tim into all my fics.


	6. Chapter 6

Tim eyes his phone and considers his options, taking into account all past life decisions and the consequences of each, particularly his most recent decision to combine pain medication (despite what he remembers telling Raylan, he now understands the appeal of hillbilly heroin), marijuana, and alcohol, and the fact that as a result he’s fairly certain he used _the L word_ in casual conversation.

Rachel was going to kill him.

When he finally gets up the motivation to call Raylan and deal with the fallout, he is both immensely relieved and immediately terrified.

Because Raylan isn’t the one who answers.

“Raylan’s phone, Winona answering. Who am I speaking to?”

Tim’s so shocked that all he can muster in response is an eloquent, “Um."

“Excuse me?” Winona says, and just the sound of her vaguely displeased voice makes Tim want to fidget in contrition. He doesn’t understand how Raylan managed to convince Winona to marry him.

“Sorry. I’ll call back later.”

“Can I at least take a message?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll call back.”

Winona says nothing beyond an indecipherable, “Hmm.”

“Sorry to bother you, ma'am,” Tim says, because he’s forgotten how to act like a grown-ass man who isn't intimidated by a well-placed noncommittal hum. 

“It’s no bother,” Winona counters. Then, just as Tim’s pulling his phone away from his ear, she says, “You’re Tim, right?”

Tim feels himself tense. “I am,” he says slowly.

“Been awhile, hasn’t it?”

Tim knows he has to tread carefully. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, Tim, you have to cut this ‘ma’am’ shit out. I ain't that old.”

“Didn’t mean to suggest you were.”

Winona _hmm_ s again. “So really, how long has it been?”

Tim thinks back to Winona, shaky and in tears because her second ex-husband had just turned up dead. “About a year and a half, I believe,” he says.

Winona thinks a minute. “Sounds about right." Then, “Shit--listen, I have to go, but it was nice to hear from you, Tim. Are you sure you don’t want me to leave Raylan a message for you?”

“Good to hear from you too,” Tim says, the words coming out only a little forced. “And no, it’s fine. Nothing in particular I meant to say to him.”

It takes him about a half second shorter than Winona to realize he’s betrayed himself. He hears the slight hitch in Winona’s breath when she registers it too.

“So...you called Raylan just to talk?”

Tim knows his silence is further self-treason, but he thinks it would be worse if he spoke. But Winona proves herself unwilling to speak either, as if challenging Tim to leave her question unanswered, and eventually Tim realizes if he tries to call her bluff, he’ll lose.

Finally, he swallows. “I’m not trying to get in the way of anything, Winona.”

Winona let’s out a small huff. Surprised, Tim figures. “And just how do you think you’d manage that?” She’s all tiger, even over the phone, and Tim has the good sense to be scared.

Let it not be said that Timothy Gutterson is a coward.

“I’m just saying--” he begins.

But Winona doesn’t give him the chance to finish before she snorts.

“Hey, Tim,” she says, voice low. Conspiratorial. “I’m just fucking with you.”

Tim feels all the air leave his lungs. “Jesus, Winona.”

“I know you two were a thing before I flounced back in and got in the way myself.”

“No,” Tim argues, uncomfortable with the idea that at any point in time Raylan might have put Tim before his relationship with the mother of his child. “You didn’t get in the way of anything.”

“Word of advice: Don’t tell Raylan if that’s the way you really feel. Because that’s definitely not the impression he gave me.”

Tim feels his scales tipping, the weight of the conversation just too much. “I’m officially super uncomfortable with this whole talking-openly-thing.”

“Men,” Winona scoffs. “None of you can handle talking about anything that matters, I swear.”

Tim puts his free hand to his forehead. “Can we just pretend this didn’t happen?”

“Sure,” Winona says, overly enthusiastic. “Why the hell not. I’ll just tell Raylan you called, then.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“It’s _no_ trouble, Tim.”

“For you, maybe,” he mutters, and Winona laughs.

“You two make quite a pair,” she says, but Tim doesn’t think she means it as an insult. “Tell Art I said hi, would you?”

“I will,” he says. “I’m going to go now.”

“Tim," Winona's voice is softer than he's expecting, though till matter-of-fact. "Just don’t freak out, okay?”

Tim doesn’t know what to say to that. So he ignores it. “Bye, Winona.” Then he hangs up.

He wonders if Winona’s told Raylan the same thing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN U P D A T E!!! Who saw this coming? Not me! 
> 
> I'm so sorry I've been so bad about posting for my two Tim/Raylan WIPs. I'm going to try and pick at least this one back up again!

When Winona delivers the news that Tim called while Raylan was giving Willa a bath, his first thought is,  _ Shit _ . Winona tries to assure him she didn’t say anything untoward, but Raylan still has the sense that something's gone vitally awry. 

“I…should probably call him back.”

Winona scrunches up her nose. “You might better.” Then she scoops up Willa, waves her goodbye, and walks out the door.

Raylan waits for the sound of her heels on the concrete to fade out to nothing before he picks up his phone. 

It rings four times before Tim’s surly voice finally answers. “You didn't need to call me back.”

“And if I wanted to?”

“Then I’d say you're a lost cause, Givens.”

Raylan smiles to himself, relieved Tim doesn't seem too awfully anxious to end the call. “Think we all knew that already, Gutterson.”

“True. Art and I talk about how hopeless you are all the time.”

“Aw, so you  _ do _ talk about me.”

“Complain mostly.”

“About how much you miss me?”

“About how you've been gone for half a year and this office still can't escape the shadow of your misbegotten legacy.”

“So you're saying I've got a legacy?”

“A  _ misbegotten  _ legacy.”

“You just wanted to say ‘misbegotten’ again.”

Tim sighs. “Maybe.”

Raylan grins. He likes it best when Tim’s in this mood. Quick as usual but a little less sharp. He hadn’t expected it, given Tim’s accidental conversation with Winona, and it’s a nice surprise. 

“How's the GSW feeling?”

There's an obvious tightness in Tim’s voice when he says, “Not so great now that I've quit mixing my substances.”

Raylan snorts. “Probably for the best. I imagine there's a reason such behavior’s not doctor recommended.”

“What do they know,” Tim mutters. 

“Shit, I’ve wondered that a time or two myself. But I figure, hey, they've kept me alive more than once. May as well give them some credit.”

“Buzz kills, all of them,” Tim counters. “I miss my beer.”

“How much longer are you on the pain meds?”

“Not much. I prefer booze to pills, so I’ll probably trade out one habit for another in the next day or so.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“Well, Raylan, you know that’s what I’m famous for: making healthy choices.”

They pause for a moment, letting the silence fall comfortably between them. But because Raylan’s Raylan, he decides he can’t let it be. “Are we going to talk about what you talked about with Winona, or are we going to pretend it never happened.”

“That would be door number two for my final answer,” Tim says back, voice tight again.

Raylan’s only a little disappointed. He says, “You’re mixing your game show metaphors.”

“What’s a metaphor again?” Tim asks, quick as can be.

“It’s where you say one thing  _ is _ something else. Like ‘Tim Gutterson  _ is _ a little shit.’”

“Thanks for the example.”

“I always found I learned better when I put the theory into practice.”

Tim hums in apparent agreement. “Okay, so what about this one: ‘Raylan Givens  _ is _ a nosey asshole’?”

“Shit, Tim, I think you've got the hang of it.”

“You’re a good teacher.”

“In addition to a nosey asshole?”

“A man of many layers.”

“So you’re saying we’re not going to talk about Winona.”

“I’m saying we’re not going to talk about Winona.”

“Then what do you want to talk about? Seeing as you called me first and all.”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice?”

“Romantic.”

“That’s me,” Tim says, and to Raylan’s ear, Tim sounds not a little bit bitter.

Raylan knows he shouldn’t have brought up Winona. That Tim’s mood was likely to darken if he did. Yet he’d had to push the button anyway. Never let it be said that Raylan Givens doesn’t like to make shit more complicated than it has to be. 

“Have you heard from Rachel?” he asks, changing the subject again. Maybe an update on Rachel will be more pleasant.

“I don’t want to talk about Rachel either,” Tim all but snaps. 

Apparently not.

Raylan feels himself growing irritated. “Then I ask again: what  _ do _ you want to talk about?”

For a long while, Tim doesn’t say anything. Raylan waits him out.

“Do I--” Tim starts, but then he stops himself. He falls into silence once more, and this time it’s clear he’s not going to speak again. Years of working with Tim and months of sleeping with him have taught Raylan that when this type of silence descends on the man, very little can break him out of it. But Raylan still knows just how to do it.

“I’m going to bring something up again that you already shot down. But I want you to reconsider.”

There’s the faintest of  _ tsk’ _ s on the other end of the line.

“I really think you should come down and visit me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Raylan,” Tim says, clearly surprised. “Only fucking you.”

“I’d be open to that if you came out.”

The cluck of disapproval is emphatically audible. “How can one dude be such a dick? Explain that to me, since you are that dude.”

“Tim,” Raylan says, running a hand down his face, “Why is it so hard for you to believe that I just want to see you?”

“It just...is, Raylan. It just is.”

“Well, what if I came out there?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Come on, you know what.”

Raylan finds himself decidedly angry. “No, I don’t. Speak plainly, Tim. What are you trying to say to me?”

“Nothing, Raylan. I’m not trying to say a damn thing.”

Even though Raylan can trace the conversation back to the moment it took a bad turn, he's somehow still caught off guard by the fact they're arguing (again) when they had initially been doing so well. It makes him even madder that things with Tim never seem able to run smoothly. 

Which is why he snaps, “Then what are we doing? These phone calls. What are they? A chat between friends? A way to kill time? Foreplay to a fuck that’s never going to happen? If talking to me is such a chore, then why do you keep doing it?”

Tim laughs, an ugly sound, but when he speaks he just sounds tired. “You know, Raylan. I’ve been asking myself the same questions, and I still don’t have an answer.”

They feel on the precipice of something, and that whether that thing is bad or good depends solely on what Raylan says next. He takes a breath. 

“Did you think I was lying when I said I miss you?”

Tim doesn’t immediately respond, leaving Raylan to wait, exposed. 

“No,” he finally says.

“Then why do you have to push so hard against this?”

Tim scoffs. “We don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”

“Yet you seem determined to keep either of us from finding out.”

“Raylan,” Tim starts, then, “Shit. Art just texted. He’s calling me in.”

“Don’t go yet,” Raylan replies. He wants to know what Tim was going to say. “Finish this conversation.”

“I can’t,” Tim says, frustrated. “He’s calling me in  _ now _ . Something’s happening.”

“You’re still recovering.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be useful.”

“Tim--”

“Raylan, I have to go.”

“Call me when you can. This ain’t done.”

Raylan’s half expecting Tim to tell him to fuck off. But he doesn’t. Instead Tim says, “I know it ain’t. I will call you back.”

“Be careful,” Raylan says, and Tim’s reply is to simply end the call.

“Goddamnit,” Raylan says to himself. “God fucking damnit.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from my ultimate tim/raylan song, "all today" by elvis perkins.


End file.
